‘Born to Bo and Carrie, a thick-thatched boy child,’
Styled much in the manner of his Poppa, carefree and wild,
Boris’s sixth, joining three daughters and two brothers
Selectively spread over three decades and three mothers.
After his brush with mortality can Bo be a changed man?
Rigidly stick to Carrie’s ‘Keep Johnson In-His-Pants Family Plan?
Carrie, just trust Bo to not carry on, Carrie, try to keep calm,
Bo’s put two partners behind him, so… third mom’s the charm?
If you really wanna be Corona cured,
Your survival can be patently ensured,
Doctor Dettol Don offers some folksy advice
To forestall your early entry into Paradise.
Believe Don, salvation is within your reach-
Open the cleaning closet and grab some bleach,
Whatever is adorned with a big red WARNING label-
Doc Don dismisses that as ‘nother Fake News fable.
Whatever comes to hand that can clean the sink,
Anything, time’s of the essence, ain’t no time to think!
Quick, grab that strong purple stuff from the littlest room-
One dose of that guarantee’s a Covid Kaboom.
Fauci can’t condone Dons treatment for the sick,
He cannot endorse a dumb prick, nor his rhetoric,
Alas, Dr Birx’s defence of Don seems to stick in her throat
Knowing he’s only fit for a tight-sleeved white overcoat.
See them fired-up freedom fighters gathered together,
All Camo-jacketed, NRA patched, cuckoo birds of a feather,
Clutching their precious metal to heart with sweating palms,
All too ready to embrace any cockamamie rallying call to arms.
They all say they’re itchin’ to get right back on the job
But first order of business is mingling with the mob,
Patriotically waving an AR15 or Old Glory overhead,
Idiotically spreading covid 19 amongst the brain dead.
No quietly staying home, these clowns won’t be cowed-
Better off out enjoying the contagious baying of the crowd-
Where’s the fun in being parked up alone fighting off this cough
When you can run wild in the streets raisin’ hell with the safety off?
In the packed Chesterfield New Evangelical pews
The rapt congregants strained to hear the Good News,
Another finely inflected sermon by Bishop Gerry Glenn;
What comfort we took in his ringing words, back then.
With the blind faith that’s held true for two thousand years,
With eyes rolling up towards Heaven Glenn quelled all fears,
‘My God is mightier than any puny virus’ he sermonised,
Unfortunately, his theology proved to be compromised.
Now the mighty voice of God has faded away
And those left in his congregation quietly say
‘No one regrets being here to hear Glenn preach
but just how far and wide did his last words reach?’
Boris is in our prayers and in our thoughts,
I do so hope Boris recovers from his nasty scare,
He’s feverishly chatting away, according to reports,
Swearing he’ll somehow survive National Health care.
Boris doesn’t like being in bed when he’s out of sorts,
Whether he’s feeling up or better is not the public’s affair,
Boy, Bojo has been a bit of a wag when it comes to bed sports
But now is the time to change his wayward ways- and underwear.
It’s developed into a sobering, if slightly sick story
For Boris, our weird wonderful and wiggy top Tory,
He, who’d dismissed this virus with a toss of his hair,
Waving away silly concerns and germs with a jocular air.
But now Boris cannot shake off this snotty cold,
Today Boris must simply shut up and do as he’s told,
‘Must it be that Hospital?’ he whines to his physician-
For Boris it’s going to be an awkward public admission.
His treatment causes him humiliation and distress,
A bad patient’s view of the inner workings of the NHS,
It’s most disconcerting to discover some common blight
Afflicts even those so blindingly bleedingly obviously Right.